General Hospital’s new writers pass probation with flying colors

Author’s note: I wrote this blog post nearly two weeks ago, and I procrastinated about posting it. So much has happened since then—especially the announcement that Michael Easton will be back soon—that I considered revising and updating it, but I decided to leave it as is and then post a new one in the next couple of days. Please subscribe so that you won’t miss any updates. I’ll be running a contest, too!

GH Passanante & Altman

Jean Passanante & Shelly Altman

It’s been over three months since the work of the new regime has been in evidence on General Hospital. The new head writers, Jean Passanante and Shelly Altman, came on board last August after the firing of Ron Carlivati, but it wasn’t until mid-October that the fruits of their labors were on display. I was dubious at first, but it’s time for a three-month evaluation, and I believe they’ve passed their probationary period with flying colors.

News of Carlivati’s firing preceded the killing of Michael Easton’s character, Silas Clay, by only a few days. Like many of Michael’s fans, I was devastated,* and debated whether to swear off watching the soap forever, but ultimately I couldn’t shake the GH habit, and I’m glad I hung in there. No watershed moment marked the transition—it would have been uncomfortably jarring if it did—but gradually the changes became apparent.

Michael E with baby and red phone 1-27-15

Michael as Dr. Silas Clay with Ava’s baby, January 2015

 

First and foremost, romance and relationships took on more importance. Were there more steamy bedroom scenes? Were they longer, with more bare skin on display? I’m not sure, because I don’t keep count of such things, but it seemed so. The romantic dialogue sometimes seemed too saccharine and clichéd, but I didn’t mind; in fact I rather enjoyed it.

The most positive change: story lines began moving more quickly, with more action. The when-will-Jake-remember-he’s-Jason saga dragged on far too long, but the writers inherited that problem from the previous regime, and they’ve speeded things up a bit.

Heroes have become villains, and vice versa. On fan sites, many viewers bemoan the fact that Nikolas, who used to be a virtual as well as titular prince, seems to have gone over to the dark side. But they’re especially incensed at the impending break-up of Dante and Lulu Falconieri, who seemed like the ideally married golden couple until Lulu’s cousin Valerie arrived in town. Lulu became a lying, conniving bitch who drove Dante into Valerie’s arms, much to the disgust of fans who’d like to see Dante and Lulu reunited.

Maurice Benard as Sonny

Perhaps the biggest transformation is that of the mob boss Sonny Corinthos. Wheelchair-bound after a near-fatal shooting that left him unable to walk, he’s sounding more and more like a New Age guru, spouting nuggets of wisdom like “The quickest way to lose is to refuse to try.” I wrote down that quote verbatim from a recent episode, when he was dispensing advice to his son Michael.

Sonny’s full of advice for all three of his sons, including Morgan, who’s been diagnosed with bipolar disorder, like Sonny himself. I blogged about this development back in August, when the subject was introduced with sensitivity and understanding. For a while it looked as if the new writers were going to abandon this story line, but they’ve brought it back to the forefront. Morgan doesn’t like the flat way his new medications are making him feel, and Sonny’s giving him excellent advice, hard won from his own experiences, about the dire consequences of going off his meds. General Hospital is providing a valuable public service in disseminating essential information about this diagnosis, which the media so often links to horrendous crimes.**

(To be continued with updates)

*The reasons behind Michael Easton’s firing remain mysterious. In online comments, he’s said it came as a total shock, but he’s been unfailingly diplomatic and gentlemanly about his departure. He’s not burning any bridges, because who knows, he might decide to return some day, though I’d prefer to see him move on to bigger and better things.

GH Fantasy Michael Easton

Me and Michael Easton at Fan Fantasy day, April 2014

 

**Speaking of bipolar disorder, I recently republished my novel Mood Swing:The Bipolar Murders. It’s now available on Amazon in both Kindle and paperback versions. You can read more about it elsewhere on this blog. Please check it out. Better yet, please buy it!

 

David Bowie: Long may his legacy live

Bowie Ziggy tights

Bowie as Ziggy Stardust

David Bowie was the star at the center of my musical universe in the early ‘70’s, in his Ziggy Stardust heyday. Alas, I never met him, but we were within one degree of separation when Cherry Vanilla and others in his inner circle came to see my Bowie painting inside my geodesic dome in the Erotic Garden show at the Women’s Interart Center in Manhattan. But more on that later.

The morning after he died, when I cranked up my car after leaving my Nia class at the YMCA, the radio was tuned to WEXT, the alternative rock station. They were playing “Rebel Rebel,” and I happily sang along. When the announcer KTG came on, she talked about how she’d loved Bowie’s music as a young child, and how her mother played it to help her learn to dance.  “I wish I could play his music all day,” she said in her typically pert, cheery voice. Then she said “We’ve lost a brilliant, innovative artist.”

Bowie Aladdin Sane cover

Lost? The word sounded ominous. I drove straight home, booted up my computer and brought up the Drudge Report. A photo of David in his Aladdin Sane makeup topped the page, with the stark black headline BOWIE DEAD. He had died Sunday, January 10th, after an 18-month struggle with cancer, which he’d concealed from all but his closest family and friends. He’d turned 69 only two days before, and had released his new album Black Star the same day. In December, his new musical Lazarus opened off-Broadway. Both the album and the musical garnered rave reviews.

I was eerily reminded of the morning I learned of John Lennon’s death in 1980. I pulled out of my driveway in New Paltz, headed to work at Hudson River Psychiatric Center, and heard John’s music on Woodstock’s alternative rock station, WDST. They played one cut, then another, and I sang along, but then the announcer came on to announce John had been murdered the night before. I’ll always remember exactly where I was when I heard the news, just as I’ll remember where I was when I learned of the assassinations of JFK and RFK, and I’m sure the news of Bowie’s death will imbed itself in my brain along with the memories of those other fallen heroes.

But Bowie’s death was different. Tragic, yes, but he’d given us nearly five decades of brilliantly innovative music. His 25th studio album, Blackstar, was released on his birthday, just two days before he died, along with two videos. The jazz musicians he recorded with had no idea he was terminally ill, according to his long-time producer Tony Visconti, who was one of the few he confided in. Last night I watched the videos for “Black Star” and “Lazarus.” They were both fantastically imaginative but deeply disquieting. “Lazarus” is a brilliant piece of performance art, where he repeatedly rises from his hospital bed and moves his body spasmodically, like an avant garde dancer.

After that I segued into videos from his Ziggy Stardust period, and the memories came flooding back. I was at Radio City Music Hall on Valentine’s Day, 1973, when he performed as Ziggy, and I made it down the aisle and snapped photos with my Pentax. Available light, no flash, black and white, and when I developed them in the photography studio down the street from my Prince Street loft, they were fuzzy but good enough to use as source material for the paintings inside the geodesic dome I showed that spring in the Erotic Garden exhibit that featured a dozen feminist artists.

Lomoe-WombDome

I phoned Mainman, Bowie’s management company, to invite them—and hopefully David himself—to the show, and a couple of them actually came, including Cherry Vanilla, who casually bragged “I’ve had him.” They loved my Womb Dome and said they’d encourage him to come see it. Maybe he actually did—I never knew.

When the Erotic Garden show was over, I reassembled the dome in my Prince Street loft for a guest room, complete with a double-size mattress. That same fall, when I met my husband-to-be at Max’s Kansas City, I was wearing the same pink and pastel outfit I’d worn for the Erotic Garden opening six months before, with the same Pentax camera slung around my neck. “I see you’ve got a Pentax,” he said. “I’m writing a book about Pentax.”

Bowie Iggy & Lou Reed 1972 London

David Bowie, Iggy Pop and Lou Reed in London, 1972

A month later, we were living together, both ready to leave the wild lifestyle of the early 70’s behind. But it’s highly likely our daughter was conceived in that dome, under my paintings of David Bowie as Ziggy Stardust and Iggy Pop crouching in broken glass, singing “I want to be your dog.” Perhaps that’s one reason she and my granddaughters are such avid fans of the Starman. Another is the final time I heard David Bowie live, in 1997, when I brought Stacey, then 21, to the GQ awards, where he did an entire set following the presentations. The venue once again was Radio City Music Hall.

Stacey said it best in a recent Facebook exchange: David Bowie has had a transformational impact on three generations of Lomoe women. Long may his legacy live.

David Bowie performs as Ziggy Stardust

Twas the Night before New Year’s

New Year's clock midnight

Wishing all my friends and readers a joyous New Year! I wrote this poem two years ago, in the nick of time to read it at the Albany Poets’ POETS SPEAK LOUD open mic at McGeary’s Irish Pub. Nothing like a deadline and the prospect of a friendly, enthusiastic audience to get the creative juices flowing. The same open mic inspired the poem about the Christmas Goat and the Taint that I featured in my previous post.

My reflections and resolutions haven’t changed much since then, so I’ve decided not to change a word. But amazingly enough, I can actually see some progress, so I’m celebrating the positive changes in footnotes.

TWAS THE NIGHT BEFORE NEW YEAR’S

Twas the night before New Year’s and all through my mind

Skittered thoughts of tasks undone and goals left behind.

New Year's apple and tape measure

Those fifteen new pounds I acquired this year*

Mean a new resolution to diet, I fear.

Those favorite noshes I thought wouldn’t matter

Have gone to my hips and I’m looking much fatter.

But giving them up? No, that’s out of the question,

So don’t give me all those nutritious suggestions.

No fasting, no juicing, no broccoli or tofu,

No counting of calories – to that I say screw you!

So bring on the pizza, the cheddar and brie,

The yummy dark chocolates to build more of me!

And bring on the box wines, the reds and the whites,

To lessen the chill of these cold winter nights.

 

Still, I can lose weight if I work out a lot,

Hit the Y every morning, get rid of my pot.**

But it’s so much more pleasant to languish in bed

With my cat on my lap and my tummy well fed.

Lunesta with mouses 6-13

And my house is still messy, it only gets worse,

And probably will till they come with the hearse.

With cobwebs and closets with clothes overflowing,

And huge piles of books that I can’t resist stowing.

And everywhere paper is stacked up in hills,

Unread magazines, catalogs, unopened bills.

I solemnly vow that I’ll throw stuff away,

But what if I need it some bleak rainy day?***

clutter books and papers

Not my clutter!

I could banish the clutter if I hired a maid,

But sadly I guess she’d expect to get paid.

Still, I could afford it if I sold more books,

But marketing’s harder by far than it looks.

And I still haven’t finished my brilliant new story,

The first of a trilogy destined for glory.****

 

So many distractions, they tempt me away

From the tasks I’m determined to tackle each day,

From the far better person I know I could be

If I didn’t procrastinate, weren’t so damn lazy.

So this New Year’s, once more I resolve to do better,

Rise early each morning and be a go-getter.

Lose more weight, sell more books, become famous and rich,

So by this time next year there’ll be no need to bitch.*****

*Fortunately I didn’t gain any weight this year, but I’m still carrying those 15 extra pounds I wrote about two years ago.

**I’ve actually got an hour’s appointment with a trainer at the Y this Monday morning to work out a routine on their jazzy new machines, but that’s because the session is free. I’m not making any promises.

***I’m making some progress in clutter busting but taking it slow and steady. My major Christmas present was a beautiful new rug for the area beside the bed, and it’ll be a wonderful place to do yoga and exercise once I get the space decluttered enough to roll out the rug.

****I finally finished and published HOPE DAWNS ETERNAL, and I’m reissuing my previous two novels, but marketing is still a major stumbling block.

*****Two years later, and I’m still bitching. I’m my own harshest critic, but I’m becoming kinder and gentler on myself. 

How about you? Do you make New Year’s resolutions, or do you feel you’re better off without them? I’d love to hear from you. Wishing you and yours a new year full of health, happiness and creativity.

New Year's Eve Times Square overview

 

             

The week of The Taint

Thor_Father Christmas with goat wagon by_ronchironna

Norwegians have a word for the week between Christmas and New Year’s: romjula. The closest we have in English is the word Taint, meaning it ‘taint Christmas any more, but it ‘taint New Year’s either. I’m indebted to Rex Smith’s December 26th essay in the Times Union for this information, which inspired me to undertake some further research about this interlude in the darkest days of winter. I’m especially interested because of my Scandinavian heritage—I’m ¾ Norwegian and ¼ Swedish.

 

The theme of last night’s Poets Speak Loud open mic at McGeary’s Tavern was “holiday hangovers,” so I decided to write a poem about my findings. My research uncovered another meaning for “The Taint,” a meaning not fit to print in a family newspaper, but totally appropriate for the traditionally bawdy end-of-the-year event hosted by Mary Panza. In the version below, I’m highlighting the dirty bits in magenta, so you can skip over them if you’re squeamish.

The Christmas Goat and the Taint

The Taint—that’s what the Brits call this week that’s neither here nor there.

‘Taint Christmas any more, ‘taint New Year’s either.

A weirdly nebulous time, in northern climes devoted to slothful lassitude,

To wallowing in the doldrums, swallowed up in food and booze.

Some call it the Witching Week, claim you’ve got a free pass to excess

And nothing counts against you during The Taint.

 

That goes for calories too, so scarf down all those goodies.

Chugalug that eggnog, channeling Miss Piggy.

No fair weighing yourself till New Year’s morning.

Assuming you can see down past your bloated belly,

The digital red numbers will inform you of the penalty for all that gluttony.

Ding dong, the season of the witch is dead and gone,

But you’ll be paying the price in pounds for months to come.

Nude Waking Adonis painting

But speaking of butts, The Taint has another meaning:

The place between the vulva and the anus, that narrow swath of skin

Also called the perineum, that keeps the delicate lady parts

From filthy nether regions. Also the area between the scrotum and the asshole

That keeps a man from shitting on his nuts.

This definition dates from the Renaissance, probably precedes

The tamer version focused on dark December,

And sheds new light on Soft Cell’s “Tainted Love.”

 

Norwegians have less judgmental terms for the perineal lull

Twixt Christmas and New Year’s Eve: Romjula or romhelgen,

From the Norse, means “That does not need to be kept strictly sacred.”

In other words, no guilt trips. Nearer the North Pole,

Cradled in relentless never ending darkness,

They cut themselves some slack, feast on foods like krumkake and nuts,

Smash and devour the gingerbread houses

So carefully built for Christmas. They cozy up at home with family,

Slug down Aquavit, take contemplative walks in winter’s frigid cold.

 

Norwegians still may “go the Christmas goat.”

Children wander from house to house, begging treats. In earlier times

Folks dressed in shaggy pelts and brandished horns. The glowing yule log

Was once a goat, slaughtered and devoured to celebrate fertility

And ensure good fortune in the coming year.
Two goats pulled Thor’s thunderous chariot across the sky.

Tanngrisner and Tanngnjost by name, they made a fearsome racket

Called Tor-boom. We call it thunder, worship the Norse thunder god

At the multiplex, crown him the sexiest man in the world

As decreed by People magazine, though Chris Hemsworth’s actually Australian.

Hosting Saturday Night Live, he flashed his killer smile

And stashed his enormous hammer out of sight.

 

In Norway, long before Santa Claus, the fearsome Christmas goat

Brought presents for good children, punished the bad.

The goat is virile, beastly, a satyr, in league with witches or the devil,

A symbol of sexuality. All in all, a hell of a lot more fun and energetic

Than the amorphous, foggy phantom called The Taint

That blankets Merry England in the depths of winter.

 

I call myself Norse Crone, proud to be Norwegian.

Chris Hemsworth as Thor

I’d love your feedback. Please let me know how you feel about the “naughty bits” in the poem. Are they a total turn-off? Too tastelessly over the top? Since I’m working on the sequel to my vampire soap opera thriller HOPE DAWNS ETERNAL, your comments may help me decide how outrageous my writing can be.

The Most Over-Hyped Time of the Year

Christmas book tree.

Only five days till Christmas, and I’m immersed in the holiday spirit. But there have been past Christmases when I was mired in depression or feeling very “bah humbug” about the holidays. I’m well aware that this season conjures up a wide range of emotions in shades from joy to despair, and that December can be a problematic time for many people, especially those living alone or with emotional, physical or financial problems. Just this morning a woman in my Nia class told me, “I hate Christmas,” and another told me she dreaded spending the holiday alone.

On my car radio, even the country station has been playing Andy Williams’s inescapable “Most Wonderful Time of the Year.”* I wrote and posted this parody two years ago, but I think it stands the test of time, so I’m sharing it once again. It went over well when I sang it acapella at Dan Wilcox’s poetry reading at the Social Justice Center last night. Feel free to print out and borrow them for your local sing-along.

Christmas shopping-frenzy checkout

IT’S THE MOST OVER-HYPED TIME OF THE YEAR

It’s the most over-hyped time of the year.

So you’d better be happy, and best make it snappy

Or people will jeer.

It’s the most over-hyped time of the year.

 

All your family will want lots of gifts.

So you’d better go shopping, and don’t dream of stopping

Or you’ll cause a rift

If you don’t spring for pricy new gifts.

 

There’ll be parties each night and if you’re not invited,

Then you can just stay home and mope.

Drink your brandy-spiked eggnog till you’re in a deep fog.

You’ll wake up a hung-over dope!

 

It’s the season they sing about snow.

But you can’t shovel white stuff ‘less you’ve got the right stuff.

Head south now, just go –

Oops, you can’t, ‘cause you don’t have the dough.

 

Hang those lights, deck those halls. If being cheery seems false,

Just keep wearing that shit-eating grin.**

This will pass soon enough, just hang in and stay tough

Till the January bills trickle in!

 

But for now, eat and drink, have no fear.

Though this season’s depressing, more turkey and dressing

Will fill you with cheer,

And you’ll gain ten more pounds for New Year!

*The song was written by Edward Pola and George Wyle for the Andy Williams TV show and premiered in 1963. It wasn’t an overnight smash, but he sang it every year and it slowly gained popularity. Now, love it or hate it, it ranks among the top ten Christmas songs. Andy Williams died in September, 2012.

**Substitute “big phony grin” if you prefer to avoid profanity. 

Soon I’ll be headed over to a holiday sing-along party at a little community church on Snyders Lake. I’ll bring these lyrics along, but I have a hunch I won’t sing them for fear of dumping a wet blanket over the festivities. I may bring a few of my books along, though, in hopes folks might be in the mood for some last-minute shopping.

 

Speaking of shopping, Amazon tells me there’s still time to get the paperback editions of Hope Dawns Eternal and Mood Swing: The Bipolar Murders before Christmas, and you can get them on Kindle instantly. If you do, you’ll contribute mightily to my holiday cheer.

Here’s wishing you and yours a joyous holiday season. Amidst all the last-minute hustle and bustle, don’t forget to be good to yourself! Sipping eggnog while enjoying a long hot bubble bath is one suggestion, but I’m sure you can come up with lots of others. Enjoy!

Julie paintings FUUSA music 12-20-15

Christmas music after today’s service at the First Unitarian Universalist Society of Albany. Four of my paintings are visible upper left to lower right in the background.

 

Walmart’s Big Bottle Blowup

Walmart Tom Smith rally 11-27-15Bright and early on Black Friday, I was outside the Walmart in East Greenbush soaking up sunshine, but I wasn’t there to shop. No, I was at a rally in support of Thomas Smith, who lost his job for turning in empty soda bottles for refunds. The Times Union’s Paul Grondahl broke the story on November 19th, and the Washington Post ran a follow-up article two days later. Now it’s gone viral—I’ve even found articles in the British and German press.

Walmart Tom Smith rally Alice green & Walmart execs 11-28-15Smith’s take for the empty bottles? A grand total of $2.10, according to the store’s managers, but they later upped the total to—horror of horrors—over $5.00. He had served over 13 years in prison for an attempted bank robbery in 2002 and was on parole when he was hired by Walmart at the end of August. He made $9.00 per hour rounding up shopping carts and picking up trash in the parking lot. On the Sunday of the great bottle heist, he walked two hours from the halfway house in Albany where he lived to get to the store for a shift starting at 8:00am. (The managers had refused to change the start time although he told him no buses were available that time on Sundays.)

Walmart later claimed they could not reinstate Smith because he had failed to disclose his prior felony conviction during the job application process, a fact he denies. “We believe he has told the truth from the beginning,” activist Alice Green was quoted as saying in Saturday’s Times Union. “His story has never changed. Only Walmart’s story keeps changing. In all our discussions with Walmart, they never raised the issue of not disclosing his conviction before. We will continue to support and fight for him.”

About 50 demonstrators showed up on Friday morning, including people from labor and religious groups and the NAACP. I learned of the rally through an e-mail from Emily McNeill, a staff member of the Labor-Religion Coalition, who said the protest was not only about Thomas Smith but about Walmart’s mistreatment of low-wage workers in general. I’ve participated in many demonstrations over the years, but this one struck a particular chord because of Thomas Smith’s personal story.

Although I hung in as a creative arts therapist at a psychiatric center long enough to earn a New York State pension and ran a licensed home care agency for nearly a decade, I’ve been fired from a few jobs, generally because of behavior related to bipolar disorder, both before and after I was diagnosed. (As a clerical temp at Regeneron, the pharmaceutical company in East Greenbush, I went from designing Power Point presentations to deciding I should run the company, which didn’t go over too well.)

So I know how much being fired hurts. Whether there’s justification or not, it wreaks havoc with your self-esteem. Deep down, I always knew I could land another job, and now that I’m on Social Security and Medicare, I’ll never have to again, so I can be as flaky as I please. In cases like Thomas Smith’s, it may not be so easy. Because of all the publicity and the people standing up for him, as well as the personable, articulate personality he displayed on Black Friday morning, he’ll probably find work—I’m sure Target would love to have him. But there are millions of others who won’t be so lucky.

I was one of the more than 2,000 people who signed a petition demanding that Walmart pay Smith’s back wages, rehire him and apologize by Monday, November 30th. Otherwise, local groups are calling for a national boycott of Walmart stores.

I can’t promise to swear off Walmart forever, but at least for this holiday season, I can take my business to Target and other stores that treat their employees with respect and dignity—if I can find out which ones they are.

Where do you stand on this issue? I’d love to hear from you.

Christmas shopping-frenzy checkout

 

 

How the bottom line rules what you see on TV

 Francis SJ Shattered Lies coverToday I’m delighted to welcome my first guest blogger in several years, and I hope to have many more in the months ahead. S.J. Francis found my contact information on the Sisters in Crime website and asked if I’d be interested in a guest post promoting Shattered Lies, their new book.* I said I’d be delighted, especially since this author has extensive experience in the television industry. Hope Dawns Eternal, my vampire soap opera thriller, is set at a major TV network, and I’m constantly trolling for new information on the behind-the-scenes world of television. Here’s what they* sent me:

The TV Industry is a Fickle Business

When Julie asked me to write about something in the TV industry, I immediately thought, why? Even though I worked in several areas in television in different positions, from an intern to an executive producer, from network TV to community TV, I couldn’t think why someone would want to read a post about it. When I worked in television in the dark ages, TV shows were mostly scripted shows, which called for all industry professionals. TV was like that for a long time. Now TV consists of some scripted shows and a great deal of what is called, “reality TV”, which utilize mostly ordinary people and industry professionals. Eventually, reality TV will go to the wayside, when the public gets tired of it and the networks aren’t making any money from it. That’s just the way the industry is.

The TV industry is a fickle business. As with any other business, money keeps the momentum going. When the profits slow down, the networks change things, sometimes drastically. As the saying goes, when the going gets tough, the tough gets going. What may work for five years may not work for the next five years.  A lot of people go into daytime television for the security, stability and normal schedule. However, even daytime TV is not really that secure. Up until a few years ago, daytime television consisted mainly of talk shows and soap operas. That is until the networks decided to terminate soap operas in favor of more talk shows. I never saw so many talk shows on television before. Soap operas unfortunately were not able to compete with the growing popularity of reality TV.

During the 1990’s there were twelve daytime soap operas on the air, fluctuating between nine and eleven until the 2006 to 2007 seasons. The number of soaps started declining to just eight during the next season and then just seven during the 2009 to 2010 season. One of my favorites, Guiding Light, was a casualty of this new scheme in television. After seventy two seasons on the air, on both radio and television, this soap came to an end in September 2009. Other victims of this new scourge were ABC’s long running All My Children and One Life to Live.

As anyone involved in the TV industry can attest, working in television, whether as a performer, an executive, or a crew member is not for the faint of heart. There is no real security. It’s a high pressure, dog eat dog world. Stress is a constant. Deadlines and pressure is a never ending force. Politics play a huge role. Anger someone, put their nose out of joint and you’re out of a job, out of the game, and out of the industry.

At present, just four soap operas remain on network television. The Young and the Restless, The Bold and the Beautiful, Days of Our Lives and another favorite of mine, General Hospital, are the remaining survivors from the cut to soaps, but even now, these soaps are still in a precarious situation.  Television is a changeable industry.  More so than any other industry. Soaps are on the decline due to ratings. They’re also no longer money makers. Reality TV is where the money is at. Ratings and money run everything. When money talks, and ratings decline, soap operas lose out and go by the wayside. How many shows have you seen come and go? I definitely don’t miss the stress of it all.

S.J. Francis

S.J. Francis

S.J. Francis is a freelance writer with over three hundred publication credits, a University Lecturer with doctorates in English, Mass Communications and Law, and most recently, a novelist. Francis writes for many publications, as well as regularly contributing to the local newspaper. Francis’ background also encompasses working as a television producer.

A frequent traveler, Francis has resided in thirteen states and three countries. A confirmed bibliophile, when not writing, Francis can be found reading a good book, or spending time in the outdoors. Francis currently lives in Mississippi, where a major part of Shattered Lies takes place—but grew up in New York City, where the latter portion occurs—and has a great respect and fondness for both places, and considers the world a notebook full of endless ideas. Francis’ first novel, Shattered Lies, is a women’s fiction/mainstream/family saga novel. As in all the stories Francis writes, in the end, it’s all about family. Future projects include a sequel to Shattered Lies and a novel about the dynamic relationships in Hollywood. Shattered Lies was just released this October by Black Opal Books.

Visit S.J. Francis at http://www.sjfranciswriter.com or http://sjfranciswriter.blogspot.com

S.J. sent the author photo posted here, and I asked if there was one that actually showed the author’s face. I got this reply:

Ah- another question about my author badge. Basically, Julie, I’ve been writing anonymously for years now. Mostly, because I don’t feel it’s important to know my identity. If someone likes my stories and articles I write, does it really matter what sex I am, or race? For me, it doesn’t. It’s all about the writing and the reader connecting with it. Besides a little mystery never hurt anyone.  It keeps life interesting, don’t you agree? 

An intriguing answer, but one I find hard to fathom. I crave recognition for my work, and that includes letting the world know who I am in hopes of having my ego stroked. I realize many authors use pen names, but this degree of anonymity is rare. The topic is worth a blog post of its own.

*S.J.’s answer forced me to resort to the words “they” and “their” to refer to a singular subject. I pride myself on my grammatical skills, and I can picture my high school English teachers, Miss Fuller and Mrs. Hadley, writhing in their graves. But I recently read a column by a syndicated grammarian saying that this usage has become acceptable. We need better alternatives, but he/she and all those weird new words like xer are even worse. Any suggestions, folks?

 

 

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